As a little girl, I loved Easter Sunday!  I remember my blue lace dress, white gloves, wide-brimmed hat, white tights, and patent leather shoes I wore when I was nine years old.  I sang along with the celebratory resurrection music at church. 

I remember the hope and beauty of the day - sunrise services and big Easter lunches with family.  A treats-filled Easter basket didn't hurt, either. But more than 20 years ago, I was facing a very different Easter.  I had been in the hospital for a month after a ruptured colon nearly claimed my life at the age of 20.  I had gone from active college student to ICU patient.  My body was struggling to recover, and my spirit was doing worse.  Much worse.

Even though I was still recovering from surgery, and exclusively on IV feeding, doctors determined I was well enough to attend an Easter service at my grandparents' church, which was only miles from the hospital. 

By that time, I was out of ICU, but still a very sick girl.  Bags and tubes were my constant companions.  I was self-conscious and cranky, but I agreed that breaking free from the hospital walls would be a good thing.

I wore a dress that would fit over my bags - a black velvet dress that I had worn for an event, something I never would've chosen for Easter Sunday.  But out of necessity and determination, I wore it.  The seasonally inappropriate dress stretched over my colostomy bag, my jejunostomy bag, my urine catheter, and my port from which I received daily nutrition and IV meds. 

It was the first time I wore make-up in over a month (unusual for a high-maintenance gal like myself, but the doctors and nurses didn't seem to mind).  I had really gross hospital hair - dry shampoo 20 years ago isn't what it is today. I rode in a wheelchair because my muscles were atrophied and my endurance was non-existent.  My whole family was just so glad to be out and about with me, outside of the alternate world that is hospital life.  My immediate family, grandparents, and some aunts, uncles, and cousins were at church with us that Sunday, too.  My emotions were all over the place. I remember being wheeled into the service.  I felt strange.  I was hyper-aware that I was different on the inside and out.  This experience was changing me.  The wheelchair made me more conspicuous, but it was a necessity. I honestly don't remember the sermon that was preached that day.  But what I do remember struck me right in my hurting heart and has never left.  On that Easter Sunday, we sang words that a good God used to reassure that bitter girl in the wheelchair of HOPE:

Life is worth living because Jesus lives - even life with bags and wheelchairs and uncertain futures.

The bags and wheelchair are gone now, but an uncertain future remains.  Doctors and hospitals are still a part of my reality.  Yet I hold on tightly to the One who holds my future, who meets my fears with calm assurance. 

This Resurrection Sunday, I pray you know the Jesus who can help you face tomorrow, no matter what it holds.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow, Because He lives, all fear is gone; Because I know He holds the future, And life is worth the living, Just because He lives! (lyrics by Bill and Gloria Gaither)